Not So Subtle Staring
by Abstract Angel
Summary: An brief insight into Simon's character, and what he may have been feeling towards Miss Doyle through out the series.


**Read and review! xxx**

**_All rights belong to Libba Bray for a Great and Terrible Beauty. Only the idea is mine, unfortunately._**

Simon watches her. Every step she takes and every breath she breathes. He watches with cool fascination; at this wild beauty who can be conquered but not tamed. He watches as she talks to the other girls, and feels a small amusement at the frustration that threatens to overwhelm her at every given moment.

He knows how she hates these social meetings; how she despises being told to behave. She hates interacting with these mindless, pretty girls who are everything she is not - and yet, she is so much more than them. But she does not know this; and so he feels the need to tell her, to whisper it in her ears and watch her reaction.

Simon knows all of this and yet she knows nothing about him, apart from the fact that he is the son of a Viscount and destined for great wealth. She glances over, feeling the weight of his lusty gaze. He immediately immerses himself in the portrait that hangs on the wall beside him, noting the rough profile of a long-dead Lord. He feels the soft breath of her presence behind him.

"You were staring again," says a voice. He knows it's her and doesn't bother to turn around.

"You look exceptionally beautiful tonight," He says, too loudly and a passing girl giggles with delight, thinking he's speaking to her. He feels a quick burst of jealousy from behind him, tangible in the air, and his heart expands with hope. Perhaps she still cares. Or at least, she cares enough to wish for his sole attention. Little does she know she has it, every ounce. There was never any competition when it came to Gemma Doyle.

"You are exceptionally blunt," She remarks, moving forward to observe the same painting he's staring avidly at. "His cheeks are ruddy," She comments, referring to the portrait. "The artist was cruel to include that."

"Perhaps he was just being honest?" He says, enjoying the familiarity of these little conversations they delve into. "It would be lying if he did not paint the man exactly as he saw him."

"But what if it's kinder to lie?" Gemma asks, turning to face him, all interest in the painting evaporated. "What if the man had a drinking problem, or was cursed with that complexion his whole life?"

"It doesn't matter," He says, giving it some thought. The fire light is doing wonderful things with her golden red tresses. On any other girl it would give the appearance of her head being caught on fire, but Gemma still looks like a fallen angel, strong and untamed. It isn't fair that she has been given so much power. She has caught the attention of many men tonight, whether she is aware of it or not. "I still believe firmly that the artist simply wished to portray the man honestly. It is a good ambition, albeit a cruel one," He adds, seeing her small frown of displeasure. "If the artist hadn't depicted the man in all of his ruddy glory, we would not be having this conversation, because the portrait would be of a handsome, wealthy man who we had no interest in."

"I can't help but feel sorry for this man." Gemma says quietly, turning once more to stare at the proudly frowning portrait. "After all, it's rather rude to focus on one's flaws."

Simon can't help but laugh. Several women turn their heads curiously, itching to know what has made the well-behaved son of Mr. Middleton behave so forwardly.

Simon smiles slightly at the look of annoyance that crosses her pretty face. "Simon, I do believe this is the most passionate I've ever heard you." The smile vanishes.

"I am simply making a point." He says airily, demonstrating how unconcerned he is by her observation. "It's rather hot in here, don't you think so? Would you care to take a walk with me?"

Simon sees the hesitation. He feels the confusion. But she takes his offered arm and they walk outside, past the rich business men and their wives. They leave them behind, stepping out into the cool night with relief.

"You don't like it here." He's not quite sure where the words were born, but they're there now, lingering in the air between them. "You hate being confined to these social gatherings. Being told what to do."

She turns away from him, and for a short second he is angry. He hates how she feels the need to hide her emotions from him, when he has been nothing but open to her. She grips the railing with clenched, pale fingers. Even such a small display of emotion astounds him, even now when he's almost used to this strange girl. He is so used to girls being the epitome of politeness, their faces blank and their postures gentle and fragile. Gemma Doyle is neither. And yet he still feels the urge to protect her, keep her safe from harm.

"I don't hate it." She says. "I just...I wish I were somewhere else." Simon chuckles at this, and she offers a trembling smile.

"Would you confide in me exactly where you wish to be?" He asks, amazed by his own boldness. She sighs, leaning against the railing now, letting the slight breeze catch her unruly locks. She is too daring by half, he thinks. And he likes it. He likes the way her bosom strains against the neckline of her gown, likes the way her expression is slightly bored, distant and still unbelievably intelligent and cynical. He likes how beautiful she is, inside and out. He even likes the enigma of her heart and mind, the way he'll never know if she's plotting to kiss him or kill him.

"I don't think you want to know," She says, and she has that detached look in her eyes again, and Simon knows she's miles away, lost from him. "I'm afraid you'd think less of me."

He reaches for her hand and it pains him deeply when she moves slightly away from him, avoiding his comforting touch. "Miss Doyle – Gemma – that would be impossible. I could never think less of you."

"Is that the truth, Mr. Middleton?" Gemma asks, a small note of desperation coloring her velvety voice. "If I were to admit my deepest secrets, would you truly accept me still? Or would you run for the safety and sanctity of your family's bosom?"

Oh, God. If it had been anyone else, he would've been insulted – he would've sent them away from his presence, shocked and dismayed. But with Gemma, he can only bring himself to see the ruthless truth in her words. He wants so very badly to respond indignantly – with enough conviction to make her confess her deepest sin – but he knows in his heart that he can't, that she would sense the lie in his words and voice and something would break between the two. And Simon can't risk that – because their relationship is already fragile and breaking. He won't – he can't – be responsible for the final blow.

And so he stays silent, and his heart breaks when she gently touches his hand with her soft fingertips – a final farewell of sorts. She turns around, her long skirts brushing against the stone ground with a scratching noise. And she leaves him standing there, alone. Just like usual. Gemma Doyle is predictable in that respect – she always leaves him, without fail.

He's shocked. He's said nothing and yet, his silence is an answer all on its own. He feels as if he's failed some private examination, as if he's disappointed her somehow, even though he's been nothing but perfectly kind and adoring.

He despises himself – and for a moment, he despises her, for making him so vulnerable and so damn miserable. Why can't she be _normal_? Respond to his flirting and attentions like any other reasonable girl? Answer his questions without another question arising as an answer? Make him feel something other than bitter regret and sadness? Hold his hand in public without looking as if she's under some personal torture?

Because then she wouldn't be Gemma Doyle, and he wouldn't like her half as much.

And so, with a quick drum of his fingers against the cool marble railing, he goes back into the stifling room, and consorts with his mother and all of her friends, like a respectable son should do. And he watches her, always.


End file.
